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In the case of Poe, it was his fiction that was, well, stranger than fiction.

I’m pretty positive that Edgar Allan Poe had (has?) the power to travel through time. Hear me out on this one.

It’s not just the well-known circumstances of his life — orphaned at a young age, father of the mystery novel, master of cryptology, maestro of the macabre. Nor am I referring to the head-scratching details of the days leading up to his death: how he was found on the street near a voting poll wearing someone else’s clothes, and during his subsequent hospitalization, he was alleged to babble incoherently about an unidentified person named “Reynolds.”